


druxy

by linds



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 06:02:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3316856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linds/pseuds/linds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You wonder why you never left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	druxy

**Author's Note:**

> (if you are confused and want more information, you can go to druxythenovel.tumblr.com)

1643 – Portugal 

You push your thoughts away, burying them as you try to busy yourself with changing the bed-sheets. You do not question the fabric of them and instead pile the dirtied ones into a corner and put fresh ones on. After a few moments of light cleaning, you sit on the edge of the bed and realize that this was not the life for you. 

Ignoring how pathetic you probably looked, you walk to the window, admiring the warmth of the shining and sun and trying to feel something, anything, that does not draw up the thoughts of your last love. And yet instead you think about how your last love is your current love and your future. The love before the last love you remember and the one that you cannot see past.

Footsteps echo in the corridor and you quickly make it look as if you have actually been useful. There is a tug in your stomach as you realize that you may not be her love. Before you can dwell on it, the door to the bedroom opens, and you are on your knees rubbing at a non-existent stain on the floor.

You stand and curtsey, as the man standing in front of you is more of your boss than the young woman—you say young, yet she is around your physical age—who is by his side is. He offers you a curt nod and turns to the young woman, who you assume is his daughter. He gestures to you while facing her.

“This is your new handmaiden,” he announces. His accent is thick and you hope that no one will recognize you were not born on Portuguese soil—you were technically not born on any modern-named soil, yet you will always keep that to yourself during this time.

The woman gives you a dull look; she is bored, and you can tell. Her eyes flicker back up to her father, a quizzical expression overcoming her features. “What has happened to Amélia?”

“She died in childbirth last week,” he informs her. He does not attempt to sound upset; there is no point in pretending to feel something you do not when among other nobles.

“And I was not told when it happened?”

“You question things too often. Did you wonder where she was at all?”

She shakes her head after hesitating for a moment, knowing that once she answered honestly, she would bring herself to understand why she was not informed. Her father clears his throat and jerks his chin to you again before leaving the room. 

The two of you are alone. Your throat is thick and you wonder if you should say something, but the potential wrath of an annoyed noble causes you to swallow any word you think of. You watch as she sits at the edge of the bed, inches from the exact spot you had been sitting on minutes earlier.

Her hands are soft and run along the covered mattress, tracing invisible, nonsensical patterns that you try to make sense of. She looks up at you when you least expect it and you try not to jump back from being startled by the attention. You shift uncomfortably as she studies you and notice as there is a quick flash of recognition—a stutter of familiarity. It vanishes before she realizes it herself and you are back to thinking of years lost and the patterns she is still tracing on the mattress.

“Do you have a name?” she asks suddenly, her voice lacking any hint of enthusiasm that you have been hoping would be there.

“Lucía,” you respond, not missing a single beat. You worry that she will hear the feigned accent and think the worse. It is not a crime to be from another country; yet your accent is more that of a Spanish-speaking woman and you know that in this time, being from Spain is what could get you in trouble. No noble of Portugal would want a Spanish spy in their home.

“Catarina,” she says. You already know who she is and what she is called by, but you smile sweetly anyway and yearn for it to be returned. She does not smile at you, or acknowledge you any further than to ask, “What happened to my bed sheets?” As you open your mouth to answer, she waves her hand. “Never mind that; just make sure they are moved before I am to sleep tonight.”

You nod obediently and pick them up, walking out of the room and hoping she will call you back to speak. She does not, and by the time you reach the washroom, you still are not over it.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a preface.


End file.
